


Helping with the Nightmares

by NorroenDyrd



Series: And at Last I See the Light [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bedside Hand-Holding, Cute Ending, F/M, Fade Dreams, Fluff and Angst, Magic, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Post-In Your Heart Shall Burn, Scarification, The Fade, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 10:21:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14913581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: As Josephine is plagued by nightmares of Haven burning, Inquisitor Maedhros Lavellan offers his help as a Fade-touched mage, intending to travel to her dreams and reshape them into something more pleasant. But it turns out that the memories of that night still pain him as well.





	Helping with the Nightmares

Usually, Josephine goes to bed in a set of frilly lingerie with lace and ribbons and those adorable little roses, folded out of strips of coloured silk and forming whole tiny garlands along one's bosom, with coquettish bows in between. But this time, as she climbs onto the mattress - as thick and springy as they could obtain; she fears that the rumours of Leli making threats of murder and bankruptcy to secure the best supplier may be at least partially true - she is wrapped into a long loose nightshirt, which she tactfully asked for at Skyhold's vast laundry room, stuffy as a northern rain forest with all the moisture, and foggy with steam.

 

She requested the simplest, most modest garment. She is going to sleep under... observation, after all. By none other than Milord Inquisitor Lavellan, who ever so kindly offered to lend her the Fade-altering abilities granted to him by the mystical Mark of Andraste, and help her with the... um, rather embarrassing sleep troubles she has been having.

 

He is right there, by her bedside, slouching in a tall, padded armchair with a blanket over his shoulders (she really does wish he were more mindful of his posture; doubling over like that can hardly be good for his back!). And if she were to sprawl in front of him in her usual frivolous underthings, that would send a wrong message, surely! They already titter on the edge of propriety enough as it is, what with their long walks through Skyhold gardens, and covert gift exchanges (the way he fusses over preserving the pristine condition of the Dwarf-crafted eyeglasses she procured for him really does make her blush!)... And, of course, the repeated hand-holding. Hand-holding can be taken very seriously, if Leli's long steely glares at Lord Lavellan at the war table meetings are any indication.

 

It was during one of those... hand-holding-prone excursions, along one of the galleries in the inner patio she believes, that she blurted out to Lord Lavellan how tired she has been feeling.

 

She has been trying to conceal it from everyone, even Leli - that nauseating sensation that her rational, sentient self has been reduced to a tiny, meandering weakling, lost within the dense milky fog (just like the gushing steam in the laundry room) that is lining her own heavy, drooling head from the inside. She has been whipping that weakling into shape, with her final, scant shreds of willpower; putting every effort into propping up an alert, attentive, adequate façade... But pretending to be awake and sharp-witted when she really isn't has been harder and harder each day. And Lord Lavellan is the only one she could freely confess that to.

 

Josephine knows full well that many others find him aloof and snappish; he himself often exaggerates the impression, especially when those 'others' are visiting Orlesian courtiers who make an unnecessary scene over mistaking him for a servant.

 

Oh, Josephine can just picture, to the tiniest detail, the scowl that spreads over the Inquisitor's lips at the sound of a shrill voice proclaiming dramatically, 'Oh, but how was I supposed to know? The Holy Andraste's Mark is the only thing that sets you apart from... others of the long-eared disposition? Could you not make it glow all the time? Since that is your defining feature?'

 

To which Lord Lavellan tends to respond, the lines of his face deepening in a glowering grimace,

 

'Could you not make your rear end glow? Since that is yours?'

 

Not the most refined way to curb the flow of insults, but very effective. Josephine definitely does not condemn that - and makes certain that the offending courtier is never invited to Skyhold again.

 

More to the point: Lord Lavellan is undeniably aloof, and can have a bit of a temper, but somehow, when he is in the company of Josephine and no-one else, his aged, frowning face softens, and his green eyes, offset so vividly by the deep, dusty tan that has been seeping through his weather-worn skin through years of solitary wanderings, glow with a pure light that has an odd, disrupting effect on Josephine's heartbeat.

 

When he looks at her like this, serene and warm and no longer an arm's length away, she knows she can tell him anything. That fateful walk through the gallery was no exception.

 

'I don't remember the last time I had a good night's sleep, milord,' she said, her chest clenching with an abrupt realization that the words which she had been mulling over for so very long were out already.

 

'Every time I close my eyes, I see it all over again... Haven, engulfed in flames. Our workers, jumping to the defense of what they'd built. I can't breathe with all the smoke, and cannot hear anything except for the screams... So many screams... I wake up more tired than when I went to bed. I did not think it too grave when we were on the road... We were all tired back then... But now... Now the Inquisition relies on me to keep my thoughts straight, to always have a response for everything... And I... I am so tired... So foggy... I fear that I will soon begin failing at my job... Both as Ambassador and Montilyet firstborn...'

 

'Job be damned,' Lord Lavellan snapped, impulsively engaging in even more hand-holding. 'You need rest not because you are Ambassador, but because these cursed dreams are torturing you. Let me help you. Let me be there next time you go to sleep; I will use my Mark to travel to your part of the Fade and see what I can fix'.

 

Josephine remembers stuttering something humbled and overwhelmed, like 'Oh, no, milord, I couldn't... Please do not overexert yourself on my behalf...' - but truth be told, she is happy that he insisted. And this time, when she sinks onto her springy mattress, her modesty protected by a shapeless, vaguely rectangular shirt, sensing the Inquisitor's presence within her reach makes her less frightened when the horizon of her mind darkens, and the fuzzy silhouettes of the Frostbacks and the little Haven homes take shape, and the first flares of the all-too-familiar dragon fire rip through the dreamlike snowy valley. The nightmare begins anew - but she is no longer facing it on her own.

 

Hardly do the first screams ring out, rising from the little flailing human figures that are trapped with mounting flames on all sides, when the Inquisitor appears next to Josephine, on the bobbing chunk of frost-touched rock that the Fade has conjured up for her to stand on (in her nightmares, the rock tends to travel through the valley in large, slow circles, offering her a view of the destruction from every angle possible).

 

He is still wearing that blanket - but the spirits of the Fade (perhaps spurred on by Josephine's imagination) transform it into a long, flowing cape that spreads in the wind behind his - no longer slouched! - shoulders and, together with his dark-green tunic, gives him the likeness of a hero straight from the tall tales Antivan sailors share in between loud glugs of rum.

 

'Milord!' Josephine exclaims with a smile. 'Your plan is working!'

 

'Don't count your halls before they are herded, Lady Montilyet,' he warns her, before sneezing as the winds of the Fade blow a cinder flake into his face... Which Josephine instantly thinks to be beyond endearing.

 

Down in the valley, one of the brightest flame blasts begins to flicker sporadically, Josephine's gentle 'Aww' having had the effect of a powerful dousing jet of water.

 

Lord Lavellan clears his throat.

 

'I am going to be bold now and ask you to take my hand. The one without the Mark, if you please. You need something to keep you grounded, to remind you that none of this is real. Not any more. Focus on my touch, and try to think of something that makes you happy'.

 

Josephine nods and, all thoughts of propriety left back in the waking word, slips her fingers through his. He gives her a little smile of encouragement as their clasp locks ever tighter - and turns towards the burning valley, his long, silver-peppered foxy hair whipping around his head. From his free hand, which he thrusts forward as is pushing at an invisible wall, he shoots a ray of raw magic, pure-green like his eyes are; the ray travels far ahead, slicing like a knife through the illusion of a ravaged village that is sinking into waves of scathing, deadly gold under a sky so grey and oppressive that the clouds almost resemble a clutch of enormous, impossibly heavy boulders.

 

These boulders roll away to clear the path for the green ray, and, the Inquisitor's skin so warm and so delightfully coarse under her fingertips (yes, delightfully coarse: because every line, every both, every old scar makes it real), Josephine squints ahead and commands herself to see those crushing golden waves differently... Like... Like - like literal waves; golden not because they are made of ravishing fire, but because they reflect the sun that shines brightly in the now cloudless sky. And the screams, those terrible screams that she keeps hearing, strangled by a prickling, tearful hotness - they are not outbursts of human agony! They are the squawks of hungry seagulls, which flit between the tall ship masts, scouring the pier for any signs of two giggling Antivan girls bouncing about with a tantalizing bread basket.

 

Haven is gone; the Mark's light has washed away the last smudges of its inky darkness, and put out the last spurts of flame. The little rock with Josephine and Lord Lavellan is now circling the bustling, sunlit Antivan docks. A colourful, almost tangible vision, where every bright shade, every curious smell, every sound, from the water slapping the wave breaker with its wet hands in frilly foamy sleeves, to the tumult of sailors and traders talking in a mosaic of many different accents, is taken from some of Josephine's most precious childhood memories.

 

'Oh goodness!' she little short of sings, while the rock zooms closer to the ground, maneuvering through a crowd of freshly arrived Rivaini seafarers, who have to lean against each other, still not having quite found their land legs.

 

'Oh, this dream is much, much happier! Thank you, milord! Thank you!'

 

'Always a...' Lord Lavellan lets go of her hand, and attempts to give her another smile before he graciously departs... But the word 'pleasure' gets crumpled up into a jagged lump that clogs his throat, and watching him struggle to swallow it, pale and dripping with sickly sweat, gives Josephine a sudden but overpowering certainty that something is very, very wrong.

 

And true enough, Lord Lavellan makes a motion to swaddle himself tighter in his blanket cape, as if trying to conceal something from her... But instead, with a clumsy jerk of his elbow, only ends up revealing what he has been aiming to hide: traces of blood marring his tunic. Fresh, still glinting with soggy wetness, and appearing to form... some manner of contour?

 

Before she can stop herself and ponder in horror that this could be just some desire demon's ploy to make her undress him, Josephine grabs Lord Lavellan by the wrists. Quite deaf to his hoarse 'Please! It's nothing! It's not real!', she draws his arms apart with a resolute force that makes his cape slide off and pool up at his feet, and, freeing up in hand, yanks loose the lacing at the front of his tunic. What she sees leaves her reeling, both hands clasped over her mouth now, her eyes dim beneath a veil of tears.

 

His exposed chest is bleeding heavily, endlessly, in a way that may not have even been anatomically possible within the real world. For the image of Haven's destruction: the thick swirls of clouds, the fang-like mountain range, and the flame tongues dancing where the little houses once were - has now been carved into his very flesh, in bold, inflamed, mangled lines that never cease to ooze blood. And in the middle of the tallest pillar of flame, right over Lord Lavellan's heart, a shot phrase is spelled out in dagger-like slashes,

 

'It's all my fault'.

 

'I am sorry,' he whispers weakly, reading the horror in Josephine's eyes. 'I... I think... seeing Haven burn again... affected me... I... I think back to that night too...'

 

Drained by the pain that he must be feeling - a wounding heartache given such a morbid literal manifestation in the Fade - he collapses to his knees, grasping instinctively at Josephine's nightshirt. His face is now about the same colour as the grey rock underfoot, and his words are coming out more and more slurred and incoherent.

 

'All the lives... lost then... They are... on me... Cory... Coryph... Coree-fees... He hunted... all those people... to get... to me... So many... people... think... I am... their guard... gaaard... dee-uhn... But I fail my duty... again and again... As Inquisitor... As Keeper... As...'

 

'Duty be damned,' Josephine says with a quiet ferocity, bringing herself to her knees next to him and taking his limp, clammy hand. 'You should not torture yourself, milord... Maedhros. You saved as many as you could that night, and our people are forever grateful for that. Corypheus' evil is not your fault. And... And what happened to your clan is not either. I... I know what it feels like, telling yourself that you ought to carry all the burdens on the world on your own.. But you are not alone any more. Just...'

 

She pushes back a sob, sternly reminding herself that the pain-racked face before her is part of the illusory dream realm, and goes on,

 

'Just hold on to me, and think of something that makes you happy...'

 

Lord Lavellan's mouth twitches, and his gaze focuses on Josephine, while the Mark blinks green once or twice through the fingers of his cold, perspiring hand. Their rock completes a new circle past the ship masts - which have begun to creak and sprout massive, mossy branches, which interlace into an intricate canopy far overhead. The sea waves rise for one last time - and never slap at the wave breaker again, their contours softened by a fuzzy carpet of green grass. The sun, however, still remains, shimmering through the patchwork of fluttering leaves, showering them in generous handfuls of golden specks - some of which inexplicably swarm round Josephine's head, brushing past the wavy strands of hair were supposed to be put up on curlers for that night but have now come loose without her even noticing. The specks of sunlight decorate Josephine's locks like strings of fantastical beads, also sticking to the collar and sleeves of her shirt, their shine growing so bright that she almost turns into a second, smaller sun, floating past the mighty trunks on a magical rock... Until the latter touches down on the warm, green-swathed ground, and sinks into the grass, turning into a quite an ordinary, nondescript rock on the forest floor. Where Josephine is now resting, side by side with Lord Lavellan - Maedhros' - whose gruesome wounds have sealed themselves with scarcely a trace.

 

'I suppose... It's time for me to wake up...' he mutters, tentatively reaching forth to touch a bouncy, gold-adorned curl that is hanging loose next to Josephine's face. 'This final version of the dream should be serene enough...'

 

His chest, though healed, is still bare, and as the air in this imaginary forest is very warm, caressing them both like a gentle, scented stream, it may take a little while longer before he notices that. And Josephine is not inclined to object; not quite yet. This does not send the right message either - but with no-one else inhabiting the dream but her and him, the message will go unreceived.

 

'Please stay... You need some rest as much as I do,' she asks him as she rolls onto her back, watching the golden motes circle around her with lazily half-lidded eyes.

 

He chuckles and mirrors her pose, gasping softly when the grass prickles him, and groping about for his blanket cape, which wound up somewhere in the grass when the rock made its landing. After he covers himself, his fingers meet hers again, and they spend the rest of the night drifting off in a honey-gold haze, the forest whispering its lullaby to them in a multitude of leafy voices.

 

Back in the waking world, as Josephine will later find out, they are also locked together in scandalous hand-holding: the sleeping Inquisitor has extended his hand subconsciously from his arm rest, and Josephine has met his touch without even having to open her eyes.

 

The scout that slips into the Ambassador's study, bearing urgent news, melts a little at the sight, regarding the two dreamers with a moved smile. The Spymaster would disapprove - but Maker, they look so preciously peaceful. Few folks don't know what a grouch Inquisitor Maedhros Lavellan is; he could use the company of someone like Lady Montilyet...

 

But these sappy musings will have to wait: the news that the Ambassador is supposed to receive is, indeed, quite urgent, just as it is grave. Someone has been killing off the couriers carrying messages on reinstating the Montilyet family's status in Antiva.

 


End file.
